


Sunrise

by Caenea



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Dawn - Freeform, Death, Guillotine, M/M, Post-Barricade, Slow Burn, Soldiers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:27:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7103374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire weren't shot at the barricade, and instead they were marched off to be made examples of. They have a dawn appointment with the guillotine, and with no way out and nothing to lose, Enjolras is determined to raise the flag of revolution one more time. First person, Grantaire's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunrise

"You're prepared to die."

"I am ready to die."

"What's the difference?" I ask him, dropping my head back onto the stone.

"Prepared implies a degree of acceptance in the face of the impossible, in the face of fear. I am not afraid, not prepared. I am ready and willing to die for our cause. I will walk to the scaffold with my head held high. No soldier will be needed to drag me! I will march to it because I am a soldier ready to die to further his war. I will embrace my death, because in dying in this manner, I will die for it like the saints of ages and I shall be a martyr. When I die in this way, a hundred men will rise to take my place. The barricades will rise again, Grantaire, and the men who defend them will add to our victory." I think for a fleeting moment that he must have gone insane.

"Victory? Enjolras, we're in a jail cell and we have watched them build the scaffold upon which we will die. Our friends are already dead, and we are waiting for them to come for our heads, and this is you call victory?"

"Yes. I call it victory because we are in the hearts of Paris now. They could have shot us at the barricade. But in beheading us publicly, you and I will be symbols. We will die as heroes, and the banners they fly in the future will be drenched in our blood."

"Do you say that our friends did not die as heroes?"

"Of course they did. All our names will blaze across this land when they light the fires of rebellion. But you and I, Grantaire, will live forever as martyrs." I look at him. His face is bloodied and bruised after the beating we were given. A cut over his eyebrow is black with blood, and his lip is split. But despite the bruises and the swelling, he is still handsome, still the soldier looks like an angel. His red jacket is torn, stained with blood that mostly isn't his. I know that the blood on the sleeve is Courfeyrac's, because I saw him cradling him in his arms before the soldiers came for him. Still he is a soldier, standing straight and upright. Everything about him radiates determination pride and a fighting spirit that is undeniable. So much anger, so much fire, the consummate soldier, the ultimate rebel. He bears my scrutiny, seeming almost unaware of it. I remember how he looked standing in that window and the sun was shining behind him, making his hair a halo. The absolute acceptance on his face was overwhelming. He was even almost smiling as he raised the flag rebellion above his head, letting it fall downward from his hand, the red cloth catching the light and making him look like something from a stained-glass window, a saint rallying men to him to fight for God. He was absolutely ready to die, chest open to the guns of the men. Then they took us, took us past the bodies of our friends, guns still and hand and spirit still on their faces. "You could have got away, Grantaire. But you didn't, instead you came to stand beside me at the end."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"So you would not think you had to be alone at the end. So you would know for sure that I always believed in our cause and took it seriously at heart."

"I never doubted your commitment, Grantaire."

"Yes you did. I'm not blaming you, Enjolras - I would have doubted me too."

"Then I shall rephrase: I never doubted your commitment to me."

"That is true. I believed in you and I did believe in our cause. I knew that by joining you, I would die for it like as not. I am ready to die for it now." He crosses the cell and kneels before me.

"Ready?"

"And willing, Enjolras. I declared my loyalty to you a long time ago. You have it to the end, no matter what that end might be. If it is martyrdom, then I shall be a martyr for you." He looks at me for a long time, and I feel almost sure that his eyes are burning into my soul.

"I am the luckiest of men, to have a friend who will join me knowing it will be his death, a friend so loyal and so brave he will mount a scaffold beside me."

"This scaffold and a thousand more." I look past his head as a clock chimes six somewhere. "Dawn is getting closer." He moves his position, leans against the wall beside me.

For the next hour, we sit in silence and watch grey dawn become blue sky. Our silence is not loud enough to muffle the noise of the rapidly forming crowd around our scaffold. As soon as we hear the approaching footsteps of the soldiers, he springs to his feet. I scramble up beside him and he returns to the window. I don't have time to ask him what he looks for, but he is smiling as he turns to face the door. The guards make no attempt to put their hands on him, and I shake them off when they extend hands to me. Two of them walk before us, two behind and I walk beside Enjolras. His head is held high and he almost swaggers along. Ready to die, willing to be a martyr. His air of ease gives me courage, and when we step outside my head is as high as his. The tense silence of the crowd is almost heavy as we walk through it, but everywhere hands are reaching out to touch our sleeves. Enjolras smiles in response, but he is very careful not to openly acknowledge any one touch. The guards before us part, and we see the steps, the scaffold, the priest and the guillotine. Enjolras goes first, and he almost glides up the steps, graceful and absolutely serene. I feel clumsy behind him, but I try to be graceful. The crowd stares in silence as the priest reads the prayer for our forgiveness. He asks if either of us has anything to say and it was obviously the moment he was waiting for. Reaching into his jacket, Enjolras pulls out the red flag of our cause. He unfurls it to gasps and cries from the crowd. The guards make no move to stop him. He raises it above his head and shouts his last defiant words to a brilliant blue sky.

"Vive la France! Vive la France!" As he turns to me, I gasp. Early sunlight is touching his hair and an angel stands before me now. He is halfway to heaven already. He embraces me warmly, and turns to the executioner. "I forgive you, sir." He kneels, positions himself and then something snaps inside me.

"Vive la France!" I cry. "Vive la France!" He smiles at me one last time. I am still screaming the words when the blade comes down and severs his head. I am still shouting when I take his place under the blade.

The very last thing I know in this world is a lone voice in the crowd shouting it back.


End file.
